Chapter Text
Faint huffs of warm air were leaving innocent stains in form of pure adoration on the skin covering his shoulder blade. Silently snoring the toddler was cuddled up in Mickey’s arms, one of his hands gaping over his father’s right arm and dangling loosely, the other gripped securely by his father’s other hand.
With his son wrapped up safely in his arms he let the warmth radiating off his sleeping form comfort him in a way he’d never experienced it before.
Every once in a while the toddler would let out quiet cooing noises and every time he did Mickey would hold him just a bit tighter attempting to capture them.
He wanted to capture every single sound in a glass jar along with the color of his cheeks whenever he let out a warm giggle brighter than the sun itself and even the innocent puffiness of his nose when he cried because the world had upset him.
A slight sting in his chest made itself noticeable as he thought about sadness and frowns painting the child’s face.
„He’ll fall asleep again in a second.“
Mandy had told him way back one night in the hallway as he was getting up to take the child into his arms.
The whole family had gotten used to the sound of loud sobbing in the middle of yet another hot summer night.
His sister had looked exhausted, which, considering the time, would have been justified, but this had been a different kind of exhaustion.
Her thin legs draped only in the moonlight shining through the opened door of her room had given the impression of giving up on her any moment.
Her barely there smile had been more bitter than the new bruise right above it.
„Babies cry always, normal.“
Svetlana had told him another night as he was walking around through the whole house attempting to get his son to laugh again. The frustration of not understanding why the kid was crying had been visible in his face as his son’s tears stained his shoulders with wetness.
„It worries you, yes?“
She had been standing in the doorframe leading into the living room watching her husband comfort the screaming toddler in his arms.
Mickey had known that it was nothing unusual for babies to cry, especially when waking up alone in the middle of the night, but it hadn't changed anything about the deep concern he’d felt creeping up his neck whenever Yevgeny would even make a sound close to a whine.
„Crying for child is normal, I take care of son now.“
Giving him a weak smile she had taken her son into her own arms and had nodded her head towards the door to Mickey’s bedroom.
„You go back sleep to orange boy.“
Mickey hadn’t been able to remember a time he himself had cried and someone had helped. He had wondered if Svetlana could.
He placed a loving kiss right onto his sleeping son’s forehead whose rosy lips escaped yet another sound too pure to be true.
The room was filled with nothing but the shallow breaths of the toddler asleep safe and sound in his embrace.
As he turned his head to the right he found a completely different yet very familiar picture waiting in the doorframe.
Mandy.
Just as he remembered her.
Sporting long blonde hair as she had been doing back in the summer and eyeliner that screamed fuck-off in the sweetest way.
No bruises or injuries tainting her beautiful face to be spotted.
She was smiling contently at the scene in front of her, the tiredness that used to inhabit her eyes had been replaced with a special spark, those lit up eyes first glaring right at her nephew, then at her brother.
It’s me.
That’s what she managed to say in a cocky way without words.
I’m glad you’re back.
That’s what he responded with in a way more sincere way without words.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
The familiar buzzer noise lets his dream dissolve. In the hastiness he can make out coarse voices shouting and the loud, unsettling footsteps on the floor. His head hurts like someone had just tried to bash it in with a hammer and he’s positive his entire body is made of ice.
He rubs at his eyes in an attempt to make out his surroundings and see everything clearer. The only thing he can feel around himself is degrees below zero and itchy bedding. No warmth. No happy sounds. Just the rattling of the bars he’s caged in.
„Get your ass the fuck up, Milkovich.“
His bed rocks underneath him when his cellmate places a hard kick to his single bunk letting the hammer attack his head one more time.
Without another wasted moment he gets up from the bed, the temperature making him shiver, and lets the guard certify his presence who leaves in order to continue his count-route right after.
„C’mon, s’ time for the kitchen.“
After taking in reality for a brisk second he quickly changes into the horrible, scratchy orange uniform and follows his cellmate out with a dry throat, a pounding head and a cold body.